


Seven Hundred and Thirty

by juxtapose



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Universe, M/M, Post-Episode: s05e13 The Diamond of the Day, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 09:49:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2768726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juxtapose/pseuds/juxtapose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My lif—your husband is dead. Your husband left me—left you—left us. You’re not the one with an unfulfilled destiny, with all this power and nothing to bloody use it for. Don’t you see?!"</p><p>All the saving Merlin did for Arthur is reciprocated in the form of a light over Avalon lake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Hundred and Thirty

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, dear. It's been six months since I've posted. And now it's been two years since Merlin ended! Time flies, doesn't it?
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing except the pool of my own tears that grows with each passing day that no new episodes of my favorite so-bad-it's-good historical(?) drama are being produced.

On day seven hundred and twenty-five, he awoke to the scent of mince pies.

If this were two years ago, he thought, the familiar savory smell filling his every inhale would have made him smile. They were Cook’s specialty, which didn’t really say much since nothing she made was ever particularly good, but his mum had always taught him to take what he could get and be grateful—in the kitchens and in life.

He had a difficult time doing that these days.

Late dawn greeted him through the window in light grays. He sat up, stretched, dressed, and headed into the main room as Gaius lay on his cot where he had spent the majority of the last four months.

A cool cloth to the face, the neck. A whisper of an incantation into a worn, cracked bowl, making its contents glow.

“It’s Christmastide, Gaius,” he said, placing a gentle hand on the elder man’s damp forehead. “I’m going to help the other servants set up for yule in the Hall. I know it makes them feel strange. But I can’t just sit around and do nothing, can I?”

He was babbling again. It was what he did as he mixed the potion every day, the one that was supposed to ease the inevitable pain of dying. Gaius did not respond, just kept breathing in slow rasps.

Merlin wrapped the covers around Gaius a bit tighter and left the room.

 

* * *

 

After all this time, the throne room still looked…wrong.

The Queen was beautiful, of course, standing by her chair.

(She rarely ever actually _sat_ in the thing--she fidgeted, kept herself busy, engaged in the daily affairs of Camelot. Gwen was never an 'idly-by' kind of person, and even in the gown and jewels that adorned her person now, she never would be.)

She was everything Camelot had needed in the wake of all the changes it had endured two years prior. Merlin’s prophetic skills only made themselves known some of the time, but even still, he’d had a distinct feeling that the Lady Guinevere would take the kingdom to farther reaches than ever before.

He’d been right.

Didn’t mean the throne room looked any less empty without _him_.

The Queen marveled with wide, appreciative eyes at the décor—wreaths, holly, a yule log nearly the size of the room itself—and exclaimed, “Marvelous! The feast will be a wonderful way to ring in the new year. I’m very pleased. Thank you.”

Merlin watched her peer around the room at each individual servant as she spoke—as if each word was meant for them alone. It brought on the ghost of a smile behind his lips, though it didn’t reach the surface of his expression. It never quite did these days.

Suddenly she was talking to him, and instinctively, he bowed. “My lady. Are you excited for the festivities?”

The Queen scrunched up her nose. “Merlin. I really do hate when you call me that. It’s Gwen. Please.” She stepped closer to him, placing a hand on his arm. “We’ve known each other too long for all the formalities. Though I suppose not much has changed. The Court Adviser and Physician is still hanging decorations up on the windows.”

Merlin shrugged. “At least this year I didn’t have to climb.” He glanced an apple strewn on the ground, murmured, “ _Fleot_ ” with a toss of his hand, and watched Gwen’s amazement as it floated to join the cluster of wreaths at the front of the hall.

“Impressive.” She shook her head, smiling. “Try not to show off too much in front of the servants, though. They already have so much to live up to.”

“I really was a fantastic servant, wasn’t I?” Merlin quipped, avoiding Gwen’s eyes and reaching up for a neckerchief he no longer donned, smoothed down his long burgundy coat in lieu of a tattered brown jacket he no longer owned.

(Arthur used to tease him about the ratty old thing so much that it hurt for Merlin to even touch the fabric after…after.)

The Queen’s expression softened. “I just want you to be happy.”

(Gwen wasn’t stupid. In fact, Gwen was the smartest person Merlin had ever known.

She’d known Merlin had magic far before the final battle at Camlann, and she’d known for even longer that as her husband lay beside her he was thinking of lying beside the boy in the blue neckerchief with a goofy smile she’d befriended in the stocks a lifetime ago.

And Guinevere understood the difference between loving and being in love. That realization had come in the form of a young man called Lancelot du Lac, a name which still tasted sweet and warm on her tongue despite the pain it brought.

And in the wake of her knowledge of that bitter fact, she loved Arthur until he died, and loved the kingdom for them both afterwards.)

She lowered her hand to take his and squeezed it. “I miss him too, you know,” she whispered. As if moving on was what Merlin was supposed to do. As if two years had been enough time to make the death of King Arthur Pendragon a distant memory.

Being sole leader of Camelot had not hardened Gwen’s heart—Merlin didn’t think anything ever would—but it had created a protective encasing for it which no one had thus far been able to shatter.

Not for the first time, what he really wanted to say flashed across his mind like a quick, sharp, silver blade: _My lif—your husband is dead. Your husband left me—left you—left us. You’re not the one with an unfulfilled destiny, with all this power and nothing to bloody use it for. Don’t you see?!_

“I am happy,” he replied instead, and plastered the expression on his face he conjured up from memories of that word. Happiness. It felt more like a grimace.

And even to grimace, he had to force himself to think of how Arthur used to wrap an arm around his shoulders out on the grounds after training the knights, or the way his hair stuck up when Merlin woke him in the mornings, or all the beautiful ways he used to say Merlin’s name.

 

* * *

 

Every day he took a moment in a corridor, or at the court’s proceedings, or while caring for Gaius to pray.

He didn’t know to whom he was praying, or even exactly what he wished for.

But every day, he asked the same question: _Are you out there somewhere? Waiting to come home to Camelot? To me?_

Today, as the people and the lords and ladies and servants and knights bustled about in reverie and good tidings, Merlin couldn’t find it in himself to stop and ask.

He knew if he did, today of all days, the silence he received in reply would destroy him.

 

* * *

  
Sleep. Wake. Make the potion. Feed Gaius. Talk to Gwen. Listen to Sir Leon and Sir Gareth. Eat? Sleep. Watch over Gaius. Sleep. Sleep. _Arthur_. 

As the Yule celebrations dragged on, nothing changed for Merlin’s normal routine.

Except for the night of the feast, where he allowed himself his yuletide gift early and snuck away from the festivities to the one place that felt like home.

“I miss you.”

It was chilly in the small clearing as Merlin nestled into the patch of grass. But it was quiet nonetheless, the peaceful kind where even the noise in Merlin’s head reduced itself to a low purr.

He used to come here for days at a time, simply staring out into the open water, waiting for something he couldn’t name. Now he couldn’t afford to, what with the responsibilities of Court Advisor and taking Gaius’ place as physician, as it seemed, indefinitely…

(In the first few months, Leon had to bring a cluster of knights to drag him away by force. He hated Leon for that, and hated Gwen for sending him to do that, and hated Camelot for all of it, even for the humble, shy, honorable Sir Gareth who had come to serve Queen Guinevere in place of his lately deceased brother and whose eyes matched Gwaine’s far too well for Merlin’s liking.)

But Avalon still greeted him like a sedative, an opiate Merlin could not quit in her perpetual silence—and Merlin had always been one to answer silence with words.

“It’s been exactly two years—seven hundred and thirty days since you’ve been gone now.” Merlin sighed, absently counting the stars he could see over the trees. “Lifting the ban has been a long process. Your father’s ban, that is. On magic. But Gwen is doing wonderful things for the kingdom. I think you’d be proud of her. Do you know, a few months back some Druids came to discuss forest treaties with us? And they were free to, Arthur. They could do as they pleased. They’re free, Camelot’s free…”

He sat up abruptly, syllables catching in his throat. “I’m free.”

Merlin hadn’t noticed he’d begun to cry until the vision of the lake before him started to blur. He grabbed a fistful of grass and clutched it tightly.

“I’ve been trying,” he whispered, tears blending into the dirt of the ground. “I’ve been improving my magic. I’ve been helping Gwen _change_ this place because of the path you set us on. I’m free, Arthur, and I should be grateful.” He cast his eyes out to the endless water, his heart sinking into the pit of his stomach at the overwhelming sight of its vast nighttime-gray tones. “But nothing, _nothing_ this kingdom or anyplace has to offer is worth having lost you.”

Like an overflowing cup, or a running ball of winter snow, the words that had crammed up against his mind for days, months, years free-flowed from his lips.

“I dream about you every night. I see you in my mind and I’m afraid I’m going to forget what you smell like, what you taste like, your voice, your skin, your eyes…” His voice was getting hoarse; it was the most he’d spoken in days--weeks, even, and he felt his pulse begin to race and his bones tremble. “Sometimes I feel like I imagined you all along. That you were too surreal to have been here, with me, and loved me and this kingdom the way you…”

Merlin stood up, knees nearly buckling, body nearly folding in on itself. “I don’t _feel_ free!” he shouted, the echo of his voice sending trembling syllables across the lake. “I feel like you’re…you’re trapping me. Or I’m trapping myself in you, and it hurts so much…”

One step. Then another. And another, toward the water. And it would be so easy, wouldn’t it? To disappear like Arthur did?

No. Gaius needed him. The Queen needed him. Camelot needed him, or so the Dragon had said…but where was Kilgharrah now? Gone, like so many aspects of Merlin’s life that had filtered away one by one as he attempted to fulfill his destiny: Will, Freya, Lancelot, Gwaine, Gaius soon enough…the list was endless.

All for Merlin to send the love of his life, the savior of the five realms, onto Avalon Lake for his bones to burn.

The water was oddly warm as he waded further in, though Merlin was unsure whether or not that was due to the dullness of his senses as of late. All he knew was that this was the closest he could be to Arthur, and that he could wait no longer.

He let out a small laugh at the sheer insanity of it—of the most powerful sorcerer in the world meeting his demise by a willful descent into the depths of Avalon lake.

“I’m so tired, Arthur,” he whispered, staring down at his shadowed reflection in the water. It was warped and jagged. It did not look like him. It did not look like anyone.

“Kilgharrah said you’ll come back, but I don’t know when, or if you’re all right, and you won’t _answer_ me, and…” He let out a shuddered breath. “I want to be with you. I don’t care what it takes. I need…”

Now waist-deep, he felt the lukewarm lake seep into his boots, his clothes, his skin. A few more steps, and he could close his eyes, say a few simple syllables to slow his heart, and it would all be over.

(How easy it was for the powerful to use their own strength against them.)

“I need to protect you,” he said, and the firmness, the resolution in his voice sounded foreign to him. Wherever Arthur was, Merlin hadn’t fulfilled his destiny—which was to be at the King’s side, always. So Merlin would go to him. An easy enough solution.

He took a slow, deep breath. A last grasp at human, earthly air—at what had bound him here for so long: humanity. And the humanity of Arthur Pendragon which presented itself at arbitrary intervals of daily life, and drew Merlin to him as to the sun itself.

Once completely submerged within the lake, Merlin had an incantation at the ready, plastered on the forefront of his consciousness and beating in his ears. He let his eyes flutter shut and prepared himself for the inevitable nothingness, felt the burn of his lungs crying for air—

And then the rumbling began.

Merlin’s eyes popped open at the sound. It surrounded him fully, as if it were coming from inside the water body itself, swaying him to and fro, pushing and prodding his limbs.

Merlin tried to ignore it, tried to keep still, but it was no use—the sudden current was so strong that it was quite literally throwing Merlin onto shore. With a sharp cry, he thrust his head above water again, sputtering and splashing. Murky, muddy water filled his mouth and his lungs, and he fought hard to catch his breath and reorient himself.

Just as he attempted to find his balance in the water, he was sent tumbling onto the dirt and sand coughing wildly, causing him to curl in on himself, pressing his forehead to the ground and catching his breath. “No,” he murmured between shards of shaky breaths. “No, put me back…put me back…”

Merlin teetered to his feet, and in a combination of confusion and frustration, he whirled back around to face the lake. His vision was blinded by dirt and water, and he roughly rubbed a soaked arm across his eyes, salty lake blending with tears. Dropping his arm to his side, he gazed out across the water and felt his breath catch.

The first thing he saw was a glow brighter than anything the mere moon above could have conjured. Instinctively, Merlin lifted a hand in front of his face again, this time to shield his eyes from the incandescence, and much to his surprise, the light that outlined his fingers was yellow.

No, not yellow. _Gold_. There was a gold light glistening over Avalon Lake as far as Merlin could see. Hesitantly, he lowered his hand and adjusted his gaze to the glow.

At the sight of it in full, an immediate, inexplicable calm fell over Merlin—filling in the spaces between his fingers as if another pair of hands were holding them, smoothing out the creases in his forehead, running through his hair. In an instant, he was returned to sticky-sweaty summer nights under velvet sheets and citadel stars, to touching hands under the banquet table, to non-declarations of adoration on the battlements...

And Merlin whispered, because there was no other word to name the feeling: “Arthur.”

The light before him flickered a bit, as if to wink, and Merlin let out a sob.

Arthur had retrieved Merlin from the lake.

“There you are, you prat,” he cried in a choked gasp, dropping back to his knees in full-body tremors. The air bit at his skin now, but the fact that he could feel it at all sent a jolt of energy through him nonetheless. “Took you long enough.”

The luminescence continued to dance, and Merlin could practically hear Arthur as if the King were standing right in front of him: _Are you completely daft, Merlin, leaving Guinevere and my knights alone like that? I knew you were utterly incompetent, but I thought your appointment to Court Advisor would have at least straightened you out a bit. And what would Gaius say?_

“Ah. You’re not happy with me, are you?” Merlin called out, and the light blinked again. “Nearly broke my arm pushing me out of the water. Show-off.”

There was a very high probability, Merlin thought absently as he gazed unblinking onto the water, that this was all a dream or some strange fantasy pre-death experience. But the way the light had surrounded him moments earlier had been so undeniably _Arthur_ that Merlin could not—would not fathom another explanation.

“But I just want to be with you,” he went on, his voice dropping to a whisper, “It’s my destiny. You know that. Without that…without you I’m nothing. I don’t even know where you are. I don’t even know where to start.”

For a moment, there was complete silence again. The rocking of the lake had stopped, and the light stood just as still, causing Merlin to think this must truly be his mind playing a cruel game.

Then, suddenly, the shaking that had taken over his body came to a halt as a feeling of warmth overcame him again in full force. The light itself seemed a being on its own, as if it had risen up from the lake instead of descended from some higher plane. Merlin closed his eyes and let feelings of comfort, security, and safety wash over him as if they were intrinsically part of the lake itself, baptizing his aching body.

“You’re here,” he said through thick tears, “And you’re okay.”

The warmth intensified, shifting into a pulsating, vibrant heat. Beneath his closed lids, Merlin saw bursts of reds and golds and oranges and yellows that seemed to jostle awake his very soul where it lay dormant under his bones.

Arthur was all right.

And Merlin. Was. _Alive_.

Merlin stood up, arms outstretched and palms open, and for the first time in seven hundred and thirty days, he found himself smiling. The body of light seemed to leap in response, and Merlin let out a laugh, the sound sending spirals of newly-recognizable elation from his core to his fingertips. Tears flowed down his face, but they were a happy, delirious release—and Merlin felt new. Like his body could sing. Because Arthur was here. And he would come back one day.

“I’ll wait,” he said, “However long it takes, I’ll wait. I’ll be here. I promise. But…” He took a deep breath. “There are some things I’ve got to do in the meantime.”

Another flicker. _Have I made my point,_ Mer _lin_?

He would start by returning to the Queen, seeing if he could start to break down that protective shell around her heart. He’d spend some more time with Percival, buy him a drink at the tavern—Leon, too. Try to nurse Gaius to health and even if he couldn't, ensure the man who raised Merlin never felt alone.

Wait for Arthur—and live in the process.

The light began to flicker and fade, a candle at its final stretch of wick. A pang of sorrow crashed through Merlin’s body at the sight, but now, he knew it was temporary.

“Arthur, wait,” he called out, outstretching a hand. The world went still again, and if Merlin tilted his head just so and squinted at one spot of the glow, he could see him—the angular jaw, the large blue eyes, the jeweled crown that did no justice to the gem that was King Arthur's too-trusting heart.

“I…” He shook his head, feeling almost sheepish. “Well, I suppose I don’t have to say it, do I? We never really did.”

The light pulsated in reply—one blink, two blinks, three.

(I. Love. You.)

Merlin wrapped his arms around himself, watching as the light faded into the barely-dawn sky. “Thank you, Arthur,” he said. “Happy Christmas.”

He could have sworn in the whistling wind he heard, in that familiar low drawl, “Happy Christmas, Merlin.”

Perhaps it had been his imagination.

As he headed back to Camelot in wet clothes, he saw the sun begin to rise in a new day. Now, over two full years had passed since the death of King Arthur Pendragon. Merlin had intended not to see any more of those years. But now…

He looked up at the sky. It was pink with the sun’s fresh rays.

“Seven hundred and thirty-one,” Merlin said to the open air, and walked on.


End file.
